Chwydwynt y boten
Otherwise known as bloat - although I may have misspelled that. My Welsh has gone downhill a bit since evening classes finished.
The Horse Doctor is away in London this evening. I put her on a train in Aberystwyth at half three this afternoon, and I'll pick her up from Caersws station tomorrow at about half eight in the evening. Twenty-nine hours away all for a two hour meeting. Oh joy.
Now some people might jump at the chance to spend a night in the capital: get a bit of shopping done; maybe see a show. But not me, and neither the Horse Doctor. There's a reason we moved to the middle of nowhere - we don't deal well with crowds. And three's a crowd around here.
Every time I have to go to a city bigger or busier than Edinburgh, I cry. I'm hopeless in crowds, too. That little subroutine in the brain that allows you to filter out one conversation from the mass is missing in my head. Or maybe my drivers have become corrupted. I simply can't hear what people are saying if there's any other distracting noise going on. I'm not deaf - I can hear cars coming over the mountain road a full minute before anyone else - I just don't filter.
All of which is a bit of an aside. We were talking about bloat. In cattle this is a serious ailment - they can and often do die of it. In humans it's generally a self-inflicted discomfort, and such is the case with me. The Horse Doctor being away, I've had to fend for myself. I've had my eye on a large steak that's been in the freezer for a while now. Tonight I cooked it and ate it. With two eggs fried in the juices and laid neatly on top. And served with a side-order of cheesy baked potatoes that were left over from last week. Very nice it all was, too, even though my not drinking alcohol alone rule* meant it all had to be washed down with nothing more potent than fizzy water laced with a slice of lime.
But now I feel sluggish and heavy. My belly distends, straining at the elastic of my leopardskin print cotton trousers,** I am thirsty, but there's no room in my stomach for water.
In short, I have eaten too much.
That steak would have easily fed two; one egg would have sufficed; and I really didn't need to have more than half a cheesy baked potato. I've only myself to blame, since I'm here all alone tonight. So I shall wobble around a bit, try to finish chapter thirteen, and then maybe watch Mirrormask on DVD. Or maybe pretend to be a lion and sleep for the next three days.
Blooarghh.
* this is the one that I don't bend occasionally. Drinking alone is both sad and dangerous.
** and very fetching they look, too. My mother gave them to me.
The Horse Doctor is away in London this evening. I put her on a train in Aberystwyth at half three this afternoon, and I'll pick her up from Caersws station tomorrow at about half eight in the evening. Twenty-nine hours away all for a two hour meeting. Oh joy.
Now some people might jump at the chance to spend a night in the capital: get a bit of shopping done; maybe see a show. But not me, and neither the Horse Doctor. There's a reason we moved to the middle of nowhere - we don't deal well with crowds. And three's a crowd around here.
Every time I have to go to a city bigger or busier than Edinburgh, I cry. I'm hopeless in crowds, too. That little subroutine in the brain that allows you to filter out one conversation from the mass is missing in my head. Or maybe my drivers have become corrupted. I simply can't hear what people are saying if there's any other distracting noise going on. I'm not deaf - I can hear cars coming over the mountain road a full minute before anyone else - I just don't filter.
All of which is a bit of an aside. We were talking about bloat. In cattle this is a serious ailment - they can and often do die of it. In humans it's generally a self-inflicted discomfort, and such is the case with me. The Horse Doctor being away, I've had to fend for myself. I've had my eye on a large steak that's been in the freezer for a while now. Tonight I cooked it and ate it. With two eggs fried in the juices and laid neatly on top. And served with a side-order of cheesy baked potatoes that were left over from last week. Very nice it all was, too, even though my not drinking alcohol alone rule* meant it all had to be washed down with nothing more potent than fizzy water laced with a slice of lime.
But now I feel sluggish and heavy. My belly distends, straining at the elastic of my leopardskin print cotton trousers,** I am thirsty, but there's no room in my stomach for water.
In short, I have eaten too much.
That steak would have easily fed two; one egg would have sufficed; and I really didn't need to have more than half a cheesy baked potato. I've only myself to blame, since I'm here all alone tonight. So I shall wobble around a bit, try to finish chapter thirteen, and then maybe watch Mirrormask on DVD. Or maybe pretend to be a lion and sleep for the next three days.
Blooarghh.
* this is the one that I don't bend occasionally. Drinking alone is both sad and dangerous.
** and very fetching they look, too. My mother gave them to me.
Comments
An occasion on which 'arse' surely wouldn't be a better alternative. Or cock.
I'm not much on big cities James, but I actually love London. I don't know what it is. Maybe I'd feel differently if I lived there. Of course Edinburgh is more my size. But I do love London.
Hope you get some writing done. Stuart is attacking my leg, so I must go disentangle the beast!
I've never understood why people like London - mind you, I used to have to work there. As far as I'm concerned it's a smelly, noisy place, built on a series of bogs. The sooner global warming sinks it, the better.
Perhaps the only thing to be said in its favour is that it sucks in all our politicians, stopping them from roaming the country too much. They do occasionally escape, but we keep a handy supply of rotten fruit and vegetables for such occasions.
So, it's either you or blogger!
I don't know James - I like London. I just do. I wouldn't want to live there, I don't think, but I still like it.
And now you know.